Fire and Gold
by cellotlix
Summary: "Bilbo should have known how it would end; had he only been careful. Had he guarded his heart as jealously as a dragon guards his hoard." There are two parts to this tragedy: how things come together, and how they break apart. Bagginshield.


**AN: This is an idea I had while writing The Toymaker and the Widow. This fic will probably not be a full rewrite of the hobbit (I'm already doing that with Toymaker, and I don't think I have another one in me!); instead, I'm going to focus on scenes between Thorin and Bilbo. Thanks for reading - feel free to drop me a review and share your thoughts, or what you'd like to see! **

-Prologue-

_The sun has not yet risen over Laketown. From the bed Bilbo can see slivers of pale morning light dappling the windowsill, and beyond it clouds curling in the sky like banners in the wind. And beyond those clouds, visible even here, is the outline of the Lonely Mountain, veiled by mist and cold, lovely even as it is remote._

_He is naked, sprawled in the rumpled covers, and sore in the way only lovers are, where muscles unused to exertion protest with each small movement. But it is not pain – indeed, he does not think even pain could touch him now. It is sated need, and there is no feeling more welcome in the world. _

_The events of the night before are slow to come back to him. He remembers darkness and desire, rough hands travelling over skin that had been thus far untouched. He remembers whispered words on his neck, in a language fierce and feral, a language that is more at home on the battlefield than in bed. But perhaps that is what they'd done, he and Thorin; that delicious battle, muscles shifting under skin, eyes closed, head thrown back as it comes, and pleasure like the edge of a blade. _

_He sees Thorin standing at the window, hands behind his back, shoulders high and tight. It is too early to rouse the Company, yet every inch of Thorin appears to orient toward the mountain in the mist, like a satellite caught in the pull of gravity. Though Bilbo cannot see his face, he knows that Thorin watches that peak tirelessly, desperately; indeed, he seems to fear that if he takes his eyes off it for a moment, it will vanish into the misty morning. It will have only been a dream. _

_Bilbo is caught, then. There is a part of him drawn like a moth to light, a part of him that aches to reach out his hands and slide them up the solid planes of Thorin's back, before encircling, embracing. His need is so acute that he does not know what to do with it, or indeed even how to articulate it. There is another part, the corner of him that is fearful and cautious – the Baggins talking over the Took – that suddenly is afraid of the dwarf that stands just a roomspan away, remote as that peak in the distance, the shape of which already seems to come between them. They could not have been closer last night, yet Bilbo fears that whatever they had found was only night magic, and it will have no place in daylight. _

_But somehow, he is brave. He stands, crosses the room quietly, as quietly as a hobbit can possibly be, and brings his hands to Thorin's back. Gooseflesh rises where his fingers skim, yet Thorin barely startles. Even here, he is like a king; his bearing impossibly straight and proud. He is made of stone and stone does not startle at the cold. "Your hands are like ice," he says without turning._

_"Laketown does not exactly agree with me," Bilbo replies, sheepishly drawing his hands away. _

_But Thorin turns and catches Bilbo's hands in his, and now it is Bilbo who startles; his hands are searing, as hot as if he'd left them to warm in the heart of a forge. "We won't be here long," Thorin says. "And where we are going, you will need your hands."_

_"I would need them wherever I went," Bilbo says softly, but he allows this – his hands swallowed in Thorin's massive grip, the heat of them warming down to his frozen bones. He is bold and fearful all at once, comforted by Thorin's touch and nettled by it, but beyond his admitted nervousness to find himself in such a place, it is a kind feeling, to be touched. It is one he'd never known before. _

_"Why is it that you can barely look me in the eye?" Thorin asks after a long while. _

_Bilbo draws away. "I can so," he argues, though he isn't fooling anyone. _

_"Can you, now?"_

_Bilbo tries and fails, and his cheeks grow warm. Even here, even after everything, his disagreeable tongue is impossible to tame. "You ask me as if I am a fool for being nervous to find myself in such a position. Don't you know this is hardly the behavior of respectable folk, and here you think it is amusing. I ought to just leave now and spare myself the indignity."_

_"Indignity?" Thorin asks, bemused. "How awful, to learn I am not respectable. Or that my conduct leaves much to be desired."_

_Bilbo's blush deepens. "Now, I didn't say that," he mutters. "Your conduct was … satisfactory."_

_"I am glad to know that much," Thorin says. He rarely ever smiles, but now his lips twitch against a grin. _

_"You enjoy making light of me," Bilbo accuses, though he is half placated by the grin already._

_"Not at all," says Thorin. "You amuse me, even when you're being disagreeable."_

_"Lucky I feel the same way about you," Bilbo fires back, though now he does not hide his own smile. "Since you're so often disagreeable yourself."_

_It's a kind word for Thorin's fits of feral melancholy – where he seems to feel the loss of his home more acutely, when his thoughts return to the dead of the mountain, and the dragon that sits atop their bones, baring his teeth. It is the burden of leaders, for their duty goes beyond their own needs. Thorin is responsible for an entire Company, and an entire kingdom besides, so Bilbo forgives Thorin these bouts of disagreeable behavior. He'd fare much worse, under the same strain. _

_They dress slowly, unwillingly. They arm and armor themselves, preparing for the last stretch of their journey, for the moment when they will stand before the door and take their first steps into Erebor, after so many years away. Bilbo knows he should not begrudge Thorin this either, but an odd fear nettles him as he straps Sting to his waist. It is a memory from another dream, deep in the valley of Imladris, where he and Thorin stood outside, in the darkness – the space between them thrumming with desire like a plucked string – when they heard the voice of Elrond echo through the trees. 'There is a strain of madness in that line,' said the Lord of Rivendell. 'And there is sickness in that hoard.'_

_And Bilbo thinks of Thorin's insistence to reach the mountain, his dogged desire to see his homeland. It is uncharitable to assume madness drives him, when it could just as easily be need for home and country. This is a need that Bilbo understands, yet the warning of Elrond hounds him regardless. _

_Thorin notices his silence, and mistakes the reason. "It will not be long now," he says. "Soon, you will never be cold again."_

_Bilbo looks up into that face he loves so well, those somber eyes lit with subdued joy. "How is that?"_

_One could not accuse Thorin of losing himself in bouts of reverie, yet his expression nearly becomes dreamy as he looks out the window, at the mountain in the mist. "In Erebor, the halls are filled with golden light. The warmth of the forges heats the very stone. It is no dark cave – there is light, and beauty. And you would be welcome there, for as long as you desire."_

_Bilbo loves his own home, and it occupies a prominent place in his wishful dreams: Bag End, full of books and food, with sunshine streaming through the windows and dappling the carpets until they are warm, and the earthy smells of his garden. Yet in that moment he sees himself standing beside Thorin, living in Erebor with the dwarves, in the halls of golden light. He sees it clearly as if it is written in stone, immutable, unchanging. _

_"Would a fearful hobbit be welcome in your halls, among your people?" he asks softly. _

_"I see no fearful hobbit," Thorin replies. "What troubles you?"_

_Bilbo turns away. He considers keeping the truth to himself for a moment – it is not his place to comment. He does not know the situation, has not lived it every day like Thorin has. "I was thinking of your grandfather," he admits quietly. He does not have to elaborate. _

_"You fear that I will suffer the same madness as him," says Thorin quietly._

_"If any could fight that madness, it would be you," Bilbo says desperately, and he does not know if it aims to convince Thorin of this, or himself. _

_But Thorin watches the mountain beyond their window; the mist deepens, and clouds gather. He does not snap or speak in anger; instead, his voice is thoughtful. "I wondered if I would fall prey to the sickness of my line," he says softly. "But that treasure in the mountain is cold – it does not warm to my touch. It does not laugh, or grumble when it feels wrong-footed, or gasp when I hold it close." He draws close, his hands sliding up Bilbo's arms, raising flesh as he goes. "It is lifeless to me."_

_He brushes his lips to Bilbo's. It is calm and reassuring, but it grows as his hands grip Bilbo by the shoulders, holding him tightly – it grows to such an intensity that Bilbo can hardly breathe, and indeed, he does not want to, not if it would mean they would have to draw apart. _

_He should have known, he should have known. Standing there bold as brass, foolish as a child, drunk on Thorin and the happiness they'd found in one other. He would have known, had he been careful. Had he guarded his heart as jealously as a dragon guards his hoard. _

* * *

_There are two parts to this tragedy: how things come together, and how they break apart. _


End file.
